Unresolved mysteries
by Ruta Eureka
Summary: There are three reasons for which get too close to Molly Hooper is out of the question.


There are three reasons for which get too close to Molly Hooper is out of the question.  
The first concerns her fear. Or better, her total lack of fear.  
Molly doesn't fear death and if she does is for the wrong reasons.  
She makes no mystery about it.

* * *

Just an ordinary Jane Doe.  
Molly is almost sorry when it comes to shave her hair for craniotomy.  
"She's so beautiful" sighs.  
Empathic. Ready to get excited about the things most harmless and bizarre. Sherlock adds it to the analysis of her personality.  
"Was" corrects. His voice is dry, sudden as a gunshot.  
Molly jumps, taken aback. Clearly she didn't expect him to respond, much less that would listen. "Death doesn't stop to make who you are" she says, as if to reprimand him.  
Sherlock rolls his eyes. "For the record, Molly Hooper, is exactly how death is at work. Ceases to exist. The heart stops beating and begin the process of cell necrosis, organs stop the vital function, there is no blood circulation. Comes the algor mortis, rigor mortis and livor mortis."  
Molly smiles, one of her smile unexplained and unreasonable. "Yet here I am and so are you."  
This last statement, singular and with multiple interpretations, pushes him to look away from the phone. He does it with a grin. "Working every day with dead people doesn't define who I am."  
"No, but allows both to do what we do best."  
"And would?"  
"Being the people we have chosen to become."

* * *

"I can lie. If necessary I am also able."  
When…  
"When my father got sick" Molly begins to tell.  
And Sherlock's only consideration is: _of course_.  
"Until the end I told him that it would be better. I kept telling him that he would recover."  
If it were another day, other the circumstances which sees them protagonists, Sherlock would correct her. This is not lie. What she did, according to the rules of human decency incomprehensible to him, but not unknown, wasn't deceive, dissemble. It was alter reality to be kind, for goodness, for love.  
"So" Molly continues "don't worry. Your secret is safe. I'll take it to the grave."  
Sherlock closes his eyes, that tremble imperceptibly. The image of a Molly-corpse lying on the operating table breaks down into particles of other reflections. "It's precisely what I intend to avoid, Molly, and why Mycroft will take care of your safety in my absence. I wouldn't asked you to help me if I hadn't been sure that you don't run any risk."  
Molly doesn't blink. She doesn't tighten her lips or rubs her hands. She doesn't show any of the symptoms of nervous tic that Sherlock has diagnosed her in time. She's taut as a violin string. The minute shoulders are contracted, the upper limbs are stiff, the expression is determined.  
"You're afraid."  
"'Not will make me less accurate."  
Sherlock gives her a nod. He wouldn't expect anything less from her, nothing else. Not by chance she's his pathologist. She has his trust. "I know."  
Despite the fear more than evident (fear for him, not for herself, not for her own safety to which she has shown many times carelessly. Afraid of a miscalculation that in his case it's illogical fear. An entirely human impulse that leads her to tremble. Fear. That's how her head works. Prey to feelings, confusion, a chaos of good intentions that often backfire on her. He counts himself as proof.), despite the fear, Molly finds the courage to give him a reassuring smile.  
Amazing that _she_ tries to reassure _him_. But, again, she's Molly. Nothing to be surprised.  
Hers is a tiny smile, as the stars of which he doesn't know name and location - a keeper of light in an ocean of darkness; preserves the thousand futility that he refused to accept in his life.  
It is the second reason that makes Molly so dangerous.

* * *

The third reason is whole Molly. Molly in her essence and entirety, in her human and fragile magnificence full of doubts and vacuous nonsense, pleasant frivolity.  
It's Molly's smile – small and crumpled, broken and intact, emotional and nervous, bright and fun.  
Are Molly's eyes: expressive, fluid, mercurial depending on the granularity of the light, the weather, the intensity of the intellect that guides them.  
Are Molly's hands. Elegant hands. Small, firm, sensitive as the soul of the one who uses them, extensions of the tools of the trade that she has chosen, tools as for him it is the mind.  
He wonders how it would be touched by –  
Turns off the thought in the dawn. Sherlock find it and forces it into a corner. Kills it, crushing it like a bug. _Murderess of thought,_ thinks joking.  
_Molly is the reason of herself._  
What this means, Sherlock must still find out.  
Meanwhile, he categorizes her among the cases in the pipeline, the unsolved mysteries.  
_For now._

* * *

AN:

I've always loved the character of Molly, but I never ventured to write about her just by virtue of my appreciation (and, obvious, the fear of not making her good enough). The third season has made me recant any good purpose. I hope I haven't made a mess, I haven't transcended the fickle and complex character of Sherlock. I hope, in this first attempt to write about them as a likely couple, to be able to send you a smile or a throb of something. I hope there aren't too many mistakes. I'm Italian and a novice writing in English. Thank you for your attention.


End file.
